Waiting
by Arden Ranger
I do all the right things:
Leave open the window
When I go to bed,
Inviting intrusion.
I carefully arrange my body
So my throat is bare,
Vulnerable.
In a room empty
Of religion,
Absent of Faith in everything
But the darkness
And him,
I wait expectantly.
I’ve read all the books:
I do everything they say
Not to do.
Sheer curtains hang free
To the breath of the night,
Bare, unadorned floors
Contain no distractions,
Nothing to count.
Naked flesh
Unencumbered by crosses.
I wait.
No garlands
Of potent garlic
Decorate my window sills.
No ambush lies in wait,
Hidden in the shadows.
No flame burns
To break the darkness.
The room is heady
with the scent of roses
And expectations
In erotic shadows I wait.
A canopied bed
Serves as my altar.
The breeze,
Caresses my body
Like the touch
A priest annointing the dead.
I watch the moon
Move slowly through the sky.
A luminous barge
Sailing a black sea.
Stars light the way
Like distant candles.
The ticking of the clock
The rhythm of my pulse:
Blood burns through
A low moan begins
Deep inside, rises to escape
Between clenched teeth.
Frustrated, I wait.
I fan my hair
Across the expanse
Of the mountain of silk.
I close my eyes to the empty room
And imagine
Ancient fingers
Stroking the ivory column
Of my throat.
Searching
For the vein,
The source of Life
And Death.
In the growing cold,
I rise to close the window,
Behind me,
I hear a faint rustling.
My heart pounds.
Cool, elegant fingers
Push the hair from my neck.
"I am here," He whispers.
Leaning into his caress
I wait no more.